You swiftly dial back the mnemo-scanner's intensity, watching the violent memory fragments dissolve like smoke. The alleyway reconstruction collapses in on itself, pixels scattering like frightened insects. Mr. Tanaka gasps audibly in the real world, his fingers digging into the armrests hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The scent of ozone from overworked machinery mingles with the sharp tang of his sweat.

'Deep breaths, Mr. Tanaka,' you instruct, engaging the emergency stabilizer protocols. The neural interface tendrils pulse with soothing amber light as they administer a mild tranquilizer cocktail. His eyelid stops twitching as the drugs take effect, though his pupils remain dilated - black pools reflecting the horror of what he's just relived.

Reaching across the console, you pull up his corporate employment records. The logo appears clean, no red hourglass in sight. But when you cross-reference with historical databases, your stomach drops. There it is - an obscure variant used briefly by the company's 'special acquisitions' division during exactly Tanaka's missing eighteen months. The division was officially dissolved after a scandal, all records sealed. Until now.

Tanaka's voice comes out hoarse. 'That woman... I think... I loved her.' His hand moves unconsciously to his left ring finger, where a pale band of skin suggests a recently removed wedding band. The implications hang heavy between you both.